


Ritual

by prosodiical



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Explicit Consent, M/M, Magical Bond, Ritual Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-01
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-13 23:14:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,204
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9146299
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/prosodiical/pseuds/prosodiical
Summary: Newt and Percival need to perform a magic ritual, but it becomes a little more than they planned.





	

**Author's Note:**

> For the kinkmeme prompt [here](http://fantasticbeasts-kinkmeme.dreamwidth.org/1184.html?thread=1305504#cmt1305504):  
> Newt and Original!Graves have to complete a magic ritual together. It is Old Magic that they call upon, the wild, unconstrained power that exists beyond and precedes the Dark and Light - magic born sky and night and sunrise, from nature, red in tooth and claw. Magic that seethes and boils between them, the Old Magic that can tear the sky asunder...
> 
> \+ As a side effect, they *know* each other on a soul-deep level.
> 
>  
> 
> All the Latin is google-translated and this was written in a bit of a rush, if anyone has any fixes I'd be glad to make them!

The last of the juniper is settled carefully in place. Newt touches his wand to it, whispers a series of charms, and it begins to smoulder, sending up tiny wisps of smoke. He tucks his wand back up his sleeve and steps back, looking over the circle, his mind on calculations, angles, runes.

"That's all," says Graves - Percival, Newt reminds himself, after all this. He's standing beside Newt, his hands in his pockets, his gaze clinical and assessing, but when he turns to Newt the corners of his eyes soften, and that's enough. Newt doesn't have room for second chances, not after - not after - 

It's the night of Walpurgis, the time when magic is at its strongest and wildest. And here in America, Newt's found, it feels like it, too; there's a tingle to his skin at the magic lingering in the air. Magic in Britain is old and deep but well-tamed from centuries of regulated use, but here even the immigrants have learned to work with rather than against it, helping it stay wild and free.

So the air nearly fizzles with it when Newt deliberately steps inside the circle, the promise waiting in the air. Newt holds out the bag of powdered unicorn horn, freely given because there is power in that, too, and glances at Percival, still outside.

Percival says, "Are you sure?"

"I don't have the opportunity not to be," Newt admits. It feels wrong, here, to lie. "But... yes. I'm sure."

Percival studies him. "There are other ways."

And there are, Newt knows. There must be witches and wizards who can match Grindelwald, if not individually than in a team; there must be other ways, slow and careful and safe. There must be ways that don't rely upon an expelled Hogwarts student performing an arcane, extinct ritual to muster more power. But Newt has Grindelwald's wand, his attention, his ire, and Grindelwald - Grindelwald has Theseus.

Newt swallows. "This'll work," he says. "It'll have to."

He lifts his head, and hopes Percival sees the resolve in his face. Percival steps forward, his fingers brushing Newt's skin, the touch electric as he takes the soft bag from Newt's hand, spinning the silvery powder through the air and watching it settle to the ground.

Nothing changes, but then, nothing should. Newt runs his tongue over his lips and settles, cross-legged, on the ground. He takes his wand from his sleeve, sets it down beside him, breathes in the heady scent of burning plants and knows without seeing the wild magic, curious, seeking out his own. Newt's hands are slack in his lap, and the touch of Percival's hand against his neck sends shivers down his spine, a sensitivity to his nerves that won't leave him be. "Are you," Newt remembers to say, his tongue feeling heavy in his mouth, and Percival's mouth twitches into a slight smile.

"I agreed," he says. "I agree."

His eyes are shadowed, dark, when Newt glances up to meet his gaze. "Thank you," Newt says, quiet and heartfelt. "I know, this isn't..."

Percival's hand is on Newt's face, and Newt feels an innate physical ache from the strain of not leaning into the touch. Percival's thumb strokes a line down Newt's cheek. "What did I just say?" Percival murmurs, his voice intimate and low. "I agree."

His pupils are wide in the dark. Newt can only meet his gaze for a second before he looks away. "Even so," he says. "Thank you."

Percival lets his hand fall away. But once he settles opposite Newt on the ground, he takes Newt's hands in his, the clasp of his palm to Newt's own warm and anchoring in the swirl of magic starting to rise around them. When Newt looks, his smile is soft, crooked. It makes Newt's heartbeat feel loud in his ears. "You start."

"Yes," Newt says, and does.

The ritual isn't simple. Newt found it - no, not found it, he was given the book wrapped in crumbling leather through the post, a quiet brown owl who stared at him like she'd seen the world - in a tome, inches thick, pages dusty and ink faint. It isn't, he thinks, the one Albus Dumbledore probably thought he would use when he sent it; pages and pages of scrying rituals, tied to blood and bone and possession, sacrificial power rituals and those that called on death, too. But Newt saw this one, power wild like a beast, an anchor to tie it to, and thought, _this, I can do._

And so he can. It's a combination of charms and runes, the Latin of the spell familiar on his tongue. Newt was raised in this, in magic-soaked walls and spells in the air, and Percival was, too. It shows in the ease of which he joins Newt's recitation, his voice steady and smooth, and Newt slowly feels the words as less a repetition and more like an excited crup tugging on his sleeve and pulling him along.

Magic is strange, Newt knows. This is even stranger. Not the power slowly growing in the air, buzzing under his skin or the spell falling from his lips with bare consideration for the words but the way his skin feels hot and over-sensitive, the way the points of contact, Percival's hands against his own, suddenly burn with heat. Newt wants to pull away and wants to draw him in, says, "Adiuva me," like a refrain, _please, please, please_ -

It comes to him in a rush, flooding his senses, the sense of the land and the earth and the sea. Newt gasps, though he can't hear it above the roaring in his ears, the sensation of something far too old, far too wise studying him and finding him wanting and he's too small in the flood of it, a tiny pebble in the river but still he says, "Sis, adiuva me." My cause is good, my heart is pure, my magic is yours - our magic is - 

Like in a dream, Newt tumbles forward, needing more. The spark of Percival's skin contact is suddenly not enough and Newt's hands slide up his sleeves, the magic coming like it's restless to be free. Cloth dissolves beneath his fingers and Newt presses up against him, needs to be - closer, closer, wants to crawl into his skin and taste him, know him, be him - 

Percival bites his ear, very gently. Newt comes back to himself with a shudder, the ache of needing to touch almost unbearable, the press of Percival's hands on Newt's arms, the expanse of bare skin making him _want_. "Consentisne?" Percival says, barely a breath away, and Newt looks at his eyes, pupils wide, looks at the way his eyelids flutter and his fingers tighten around Newt's arms when Newt shifts, unconscious and wanting and, "Do you agree?"

"Yes," Newt says, "yes, vero - " and Percival swallows his assent in a kiss.

It sends sparks running down Newt's spine, like the magic rising up between them - an anchor, the rational part of him thinks, just an anchor - but it's more than that, this press of tongue against tongue, skin against skin. Their teeth clack when Newt presses forward, breathless and aching hard, and Percival laughs into his mouth, murmurs, "Breathe." Newt shifts against him, their cocks sliding together, and can't think for the sensation of it, overwhelming. He breathes.

An anchor, Newt thinks, just an anchor. The magic is roiling, writhing, wanting; it's the way it sinks into Newt's bones and blood and heart, the way he needs, so badly, to keep it there. "Please," he begs, "I need," and doesn't know how to say it, his brain stuck between languages and between them, stuck at the press of Percival's hand on his hip. "Please," Newt says, "adiuva me," and then he can't talk at all when Percival's hand curves around his cock.

Newt pushes into it, aching for the way the touch keeps him steady, the flush of magic settling between them. He buries his face into the curve of Percival's shoulder, teeth too sharp and desire too red, breathes as Percival takes them both in hand, setting a rhythm Newt can feel pounding in his ears. But it's not enough, not enough to sate this yawning gaping need to press himself so close they'll fuse together, so close they'll never be apart. "More," Newt says, and his voice cracks, "please," and he leans forward until Percival's cock is sliding against his arse. "I need - I need - "

"Consentisne?" Percival asks, a light in his eyes that's all magic, and the weight of it feels like a vow. 

Newt breathes, "Yes."

They don't need spells, not anymore. Magic is just a flicker of thought and Newt _wants_ , so badly that the first press of Percival's cock inside him only hurts in the best of ways, a slow satisfying stretch that's not enough, slick and aching as he is. Newt presses down, opens himself up and feels it in more ways than one, feels it like a shiver against his skin and a mind alongside his own, feels it like an atavistic thrill of magic too old and deep. It's wonderful and terrifying, the stretch and heat of Percival inside him, the closeness and something altogether - more.

Percival's eyes are shut, his breath stuttering and short. "Newt," he says, and Newt knows it before he hears it, a voice echoing in his head. "Newt - "

"Yes," Newt says, breathless, "yes," and he winds his arms around Percival's neck and _moves_.

The feeling is indescribable, beyond the sparks of his nerves every time Percival's cock sinks deep inside him, beyond the sensation of skin and warmth and skin. It's a slow, tight build of magic inside him and out, forcing itself under his skin; of knowing, of a connection open and sinking roots deep. Newt can't fathom not knowing Percival like this, the way their minds are one, of opening his eyes and not seeing the starlight of his magic tightly wound and reaching, entwined with Newt's own; he can't fathom ever being alone. They're breathing in sync, Percival's quickening heartbeat in his ears, pounding like his own; Newt feels the build of it between them, physical and magical like a dam about to burst and - and -

For a brief moment, they're one. Newt's magic, the wild they've called, sinks into their skin and digs hooks and roots into Percival's soul. The way it's taken Newt is worse, he knows, the jittery feeling of too much still there, of needing to touch banked and sated, but waiting. Newt still can't form words or thoughts, pressing his forehead to Percival's shoulder, as Percival shudders quietly and breathes. Percival's hand is on the small of Newt's back, oddly gentle, and Newt tries to match the rise and fall of his chest now that it's no longer instinctive to breathe.

The smell of burning foliage still lingers in the air, but Newt can no longer see smoke. He struggles to separate out his thoughts and feelings from Percival's own, lingering in his head like a migraine; he forces himself to remember his life, his creatures, his purpose. 

Quietly, Percival says, "Are you all right?"

Newt focuses on him, and the endless white noise in his head quiets. He still can't meet Percival's eyes for long, the concern in them too much now that he knows just how deep it runs. "I will be," he says. "Are - are you?"

"I am," Percival says, "though that was... unexpected." He detaches himself from Newt slowly, but as the last point of contact lifts Newt can feel the hunger rise, a sound like a whine building in his throat; Percival's hand returns to Newt's own, and it soothes that terrible gnawing ache. "It's - a lot more than I imagined."

Newt wonders why, and then realises he has its source at his disposal, the magic still wild, still dangerous - but Newt's dealt with such things before. He holds out a metaphorical hand, a question formed in his head, and like a wary Nundu it gives him the answer, lingering just outside his reach. "Ah," Newt says, "I think - I think that was my fault. There's apparently quite a bit of power in a virgin sacrifice."

"A - " Percival stops, shaking his head. "It surprised you, too."

"You knew what to do," Newt says, and smiles up at him, tentatively. "I know - this will take some getting used to."

"I couldn't let you do it alone."

There is, Newt knows, that gentleness in Percival's face again, representative of that low, quiet longing he won't even admit to himself. Newt has it, too. "Yes," he says, "I know."

Percival pulls him to his feet, and this time the separation doesn't hurt quite so much. Newt will have to grow used to this, to the way magic swirls and acts at his barest thought, to the way his awareness of Percival still lingers like a thread between them. He'll have to find his brother; to fight, and hurt, and win. But here, free of influence, he closes the distance between them and coaxes Percival into a kiss, and he will. They will.

"Come home with me," Percival says, and Newt says, "Yes."


End file.
